


Media Views

by Gentleclemence



Category: Fake News RPF, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Body Dysphoria, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lol I'm suffering heehoo, Mental Health Issues, Other, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Why Did I Write This?, if you want you can comment and stuff lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gentleclemence/pseuds/Gentleclemence
Summary: This is just a projection of my past and current struggles onto someone who's content I've been watching a lot of during this quarantine(See notes)
Kudos: 5





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so basically this has no coherent timeline or accuracy to anything, nor is it an even remotely accurate depiction of any of these people. I've been struggling a lot during this quarantine with my eating problems and my *other* tendency, and since I've been watching a lot of Colbert's and Jon's content, I just had a need to project some shit lmaooo  
> But yeah take this with a grain of salt lol  
> Also I'm splitting this into multiple parts, mainly bc I write really long swaths at random times and it's just.. a lot  
> (And also this is my first time writing or posting anything like this, this hasn't been looked through or anything so my writing is probably shit)

Stephen learned early on that people had an expected view of others. They imagined you looking a certain way, and if you ever started to deviate from that idea they would (quite rudely) point it out. He had always been a skinny kid, as most kids tend to be. Knobby knees and sharp elbows followed him through his teen years and into adulthood, so no one said a word. It was in fact, only when he was a correspondent for Comedy Central and heading into his 30's that those first whispers made their way to him and settled in the back of his mind.  
As most young adults exiting their 20's tend to do, Stephen developed that signature bump in his stomach and the soft love handles that plagued most middle aged people. It didn't hurt him though, he just shrugged it off as a fact of life and continued on. However, the eager audiences noticed the change much more than he did.  
To deal with this growing onslaught of viewer comments, Stephen did the thing he knew best. He turned it into comedy. When anything of that nature was brought up, Stephen would just laugh, and blame it on "all those donuts that were just too damn good". Jon and him would joke and poke fun at each other's chub, and everything was right again in the world.  
On the outside, the comments slid off of Stephen's back like water on a duck's feathers. People commented on how secure he was in himself; how all of those comments were lies anyways and how he looked good. But, proving the theory that if you hear something enough you'll believe it, the comments hit deeper than Stephen thought they would. He didn't even hear them so much anymore, but the thought that maybe he was getting fatter had already wormed it's way into his brain and made a home, ready to strike when he was at his most vulnerable.  
The first attack came right before he was about to go on air. The cameraman called a 2 minute countdown, and Stephen hadn't even put on any pants yet. Jumping up from his changing room chair, he scrambled for a pair of slacks that weren't wrinkled into oblivion. Hastily shoving his foot through the pant leg, he gave his frantic hopping a pause when he encountered some kind of resistance. For the first time in his life, his pants didn't quite fit over his hips. This gave him pause. When did this happen? He'd worn the same size for over 5 years. Had this been happening for a while, and he hadn't noticed? Or - God forbid - had those commenters been right?  
The sharp bark of the cameraman brought him out of his reverie. With 30 seconds left till he was supposed to be on air, Stephen brushed aside any irrational thought and sprinted out of his changing room, clumsily buckling his belt and snatching his mic from some scared intern's sweaty hand.  
If you asked Stephen afterwards if he gave another thought to the pants debacle, he would give a confident no. But Stephen was also a world-class liar. He didn't mean to think about it again, but when he, Jon, and Steve met for their almost nightly tradition of fast food and ridiculing the current political climate, Stephen just couldn't get that moment out of his head. At one point, when he was half-heartedly picking at his chow mein, Jon turned his head and quirked a brow at him. Stephen just waved him off; gave him a shrug to say 'it's nothing to worry about, I'm just tired'. Jon didn't look totally convinced, but he turned his gaze back to the TV, laughing as some random politician made a fool of himself (again).  
Now, Stephen was a big supporter of the theory that a good sleep would let you forget yesterday's problems. But these infectious mumblings clung to him like burrs on an old sweater all week. When he sat, a small voice would hiss out "thunder thighs!". When he tucked in his dress shirt a sing-song chorus of "beer belly!" Would come alive in his head, the hushed voices meshing and blending together into a growing hubbub of self hatred. Each time he would shake off the strange thoughts, and wonder how he had become so swayed by the opinions of people he had never seen or met.  
The uneasiness followed him into the weekend, where everything came to a head on that Sunday night. He had just finished a wonderful dinner, and had gone into the bathroom for a quick shower before settling in for the night. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Stephen turned his sight to his figure in the mirror and stopped dead in his tracks. Blinking as if to dispel an illusion, he did a double take and took stock of what was looking back at him. His stomach seemed to expand before his eyes, hanging low over the seam of his slacks. His thighs suddenly seemed to rub together, as if stuck together with glue. As he turned on his shower, he couldn't get that image of himself out of his head. But surely this was normal for guys? After all, only teenage girls were vain and insecure to worry about their weight. No matter how hard he tried to rationalize these non sensical thoughts though, the louder the voice at the back of his head screamed otherwise.  
Toweling off his hair, Stephen decided that maybe he did just need to work off the extra padding. Exercise would be good for him anyway, he would be healthier... He named every single excuse under the sun to convince himself that yes, this was the right choice to make. But how could he make time for going to the gym? His week was already full to the brim with work, and he didn't want to throw away the sliver of life he had left. Before he could delve further into the dilemma however, Stephen became acutely aware of the growing weight behind his eyes. Shaken and exhausted, he collapsed into bed.  
Come the start of the work week, Stephen had largely forgot his weekend crisis. Too engrossed with his day to day work, he wasn't reminded of the promise he made to himself until he once again encountered what was shaping up to be his worst critic: the mirror. At this point, Stephen really couldn't imagine how he had missed this before; he wondered how he could let himself get like... This. So when his lunch break rolled around and he took out his usual sandwich and chips, he took a moment to look at it. There they both were, sitting innocently on the table, beckoning for him to indulge in their savory delight. Hesitantly, Stephen turned the chip bag around and looked at the nutrition label. When he saw the calorie number, he felt like his eyes popped out of his head from how wide they got. The cause of his newfound distress lay in a single number, carefully printed. 430. 430 calories for a chip bag that Stephen knew was always under-filled anyways. His face suddenly burning, he pushed away the bag to the middle of the break room table. Turning towards his sandwich, he suddenly couldn't stomach taking even a bite. After all, at least the chip bag had a label for him. This sandwich was a stranger to him; he had no way of knowing what it held for him anymore. Quickly looking around to see if anyone had seen his outburst, he gave a slight cough and slipped the sandwich into the mini fridge. After all, if he didn't want it he didn't see a reason to throw it out. As he walked to the door, his stomach gave a pitiful growl. Stephen had never fully skipped lunch before, and his stomach was making it well known that it wasn't happy with that ruling. Looking around, he marched over to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. Hopefully, a scalding mug of coffee would quell the tremors. He passed Steve on the way out, who gave him a questioning look as he walked by. Steve and him would eat together quite often, as Jon was normally on air during this time. Seeing Stephen exiting the room with nothing but coffee must have looked a little strange, but before Steve could ask him anything Stephen made some flimsy excuse about makeup wanting to see him and hurried down the hall. Collapsing with a sigh on his dressing room couch, he browsed on his phone in solitude for the last minutes of his break.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of what I've already had written

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so my tirade of bullshit continues lol  
> This is the end of what I have prewritten

The feeling of inadequacy managed to stay properly tamped down until around 10, when Stephen had to once again face food head on. He had avoided the buffet tables easily enough, and though he'd been sharp around the edges during his time on air, he felt he'd covered it well enough. But now, under the scrutiny of not only Steve and Jon - the latter of which had already seen through his cracks - but two slices of pizza as well? Stephen felt that heavy pit settle back in his stomach as he looked at the triangular grease pieces from hell. Suddenly he was aware of the sheer amount of cheese on the damn things, spilling over the sides of the crust like his love handles were. The grease seemed to cling in oil slicked stagnant pools of mockery, reminding him of the absolute crap he'd be consuming. Exhaling sharply, he bit the bullet and took a bite. Every chew seemed to take a Herculean effort, the mixture of bread, cheese, sauce, and regret forming a gummy ball in his mouth that he couldn't swallow for the life of him. When he was sure that neither of his (hopefully) oblivious companions weren't looking, Stephen promptly spit his half chewed pizza into a napkin and chucked it into the trash can beside him. Feeling properly queasy now, he pushed the remaining food across the table and turned back to the TV, quietly sipping on his beer. The quick action wasn't missed by Jon and Steve, who both gave him another puzzled look. Although now, Stephen couldn't run away from any questions. Instead, he just spewed out the response he'd been rehearsing all day: he was coming down with something. This time, both seemed to be equally suspicious. But after hurriedly assuring them that yes, it was just a stomach bug, nothing serious, they seemed to be properly assured that yes: Stephen would be okay. As he ran his finger along the rim of his bottle though, Stephen hadn't felt less okay in his life.  
As whatever news anchor that was going to make a fool of themselves today droned on, Stephen turned his gaze on his friends. Steve, on his 4th slice of pizza, was all muscle. He didn't even understand how, Steve barely went to the gym and having junk food 6 days of the week surely couldn't help him in any way. But at 34, he was as healthy as a horse and a damn good arm wrestler. He'd probably never had such a girly thought as being concerned about his weight in his life. Jon on the other hand, was considerably less healthy but as skinny as a stick. Smoking wasn't doing anything good for him, as Stephen constantly reminded him. But at 5'10", the guy looked like he'd weigh 150 soaking wet. Jon was the epitome of wiry, and Stephen could never imagine him fussing over his body, even with all the smoking. He imagined he'd only give it up after he rotted a lung or something, and maybe not even then. Stephen frowned around the mouth of what must have been his 7th or 8th beer. Why couldn't he just be normal, like them? He looked down at his thighs, and they seemed to pool outwards even more in response to his thoughts. His mind considerably numb with alcohol, he felt his filter coming down as his eyes suddenly welled with dumb and unexplained tears. Sniffing as quietly as he could, Stephen brought his gaze up so the hot, shameful drops wouldn't stain his pants and give him away. Quickly blinking them away, he tuned into the conversation that he'd disassociated from for what felt like hours. Jon was making some point about O'Reilly, which caused Steve to crack up laughing. Stephen also gave a small giggle, if for nothing then to try to bring himself back into the present. He stood, brushed himself off, and bid them both adieu. Grabbing his jacket and striding towards the door, he ignored the protests rising in their throats and left the building before the sobs building in his chest forced themselves from his mouth and eyes. He didn't stop choking on air until he got home, and somehow ended up on his bathroom floor, completely numb. His face was sticky, though he didn't know when he stopped crying. The only thing he could feel was the solid weight of the floor on his side, as he curled into himself. Finally managing to focus his gaze into something, he realized it was one of the spare blades he'd dropped on his bathroom floor, after failing to place them properly in his razor and dropping expletives that'd put him off air faster than he could say "oh grow a pair". On a whim, Stephen reached out a heavy arm and picked up the flat blade, turning it over in his shaky hands.  
The action wasn't even a conscious one, but rather one made of a morbid curiosity and the need to feel something. Before he realized what he was even doing, there were three neat dashes on his palm. The now bright red lines stared back at him innocently, almost waiting for him to make the first move. When he flexed his hand, the throbbing began and now suddenly the cuts weren't so innocent, weren't so naive. Now they were angry, and loud, and goddamnit it was a feeling that Stephen had been chasing all night. He was angry now, angry at himself and angry at how he was feeling. He stopped once his hand was more red than pale. Stiffly standing up, he robotically moved to the medicine cabinet and systematically wrapped his hand. It was too tight, too constricting, but the pain was clearer now and Stephen could focus again.  
After what felt like one long blink, Stephen found himself still lying on the floor of his bathroom, with his face sticky from long dried tears and drool, and half his face red with carpet marks. His bandaged hand continued to pulse, and the once raging hunger in his stomach had subsided into a dull, gnawing sensation. He sat in the kitchen for a while, staring at an empty mug that should've been filled with coffee, until he absent-mindedly looked at his watch and realized he would be late to work in about 7 minutes. Work which was in a studio about half an hour from his apartment. Work in which he had responsibilities, like hosting the first in field segment. Breathing heavily, he shoved out the door tying his tie and leaving Jon a voicemail, telling him to cover for as long as he could and he was so so so so sorry about this and he'd just lost track of time and-  
He ran out of breath somewhere between Azalea St. And 23rd. He didn't remember if he'd ever pressed hang up, but he hoped that the machine had cut him off and spared Jon from listening to his ragged, uneven breathes.  
After having what felt like 10 consecutive heart attacks, Stephen stumbled into the studio. Ignoring the sharp running pains in his stomach, he dashed through the halls of the studio only to be greeting with a locked door and a blinking 'ON AIR' sign. Sighing with defeat, he leaned up against the wall to catch his breath, taking in big shuddering breathes as his heart returned to a medically safe tempo. Pressing his good ear against the heavy set door, he could hear Jon's voice calling a commercial break and as the recorded music played out, he pushed the door open into the studio. Tripping over his words, he rushed out apology over apology until Jon grabbed him by his shoulders and assured him that it was alright. John had been on location and had filled in, and the report went down without a hitch. Stephen didn't hear any of it though, his head was currently filled with the loud rushing of blood from his previous sprint and the shaming comments yelling at his blunder. He felt himself being led out of the room as his mind swelled with negative outbursts. He only snapped back once he felt himself getting sat in a chair and saw a coffee cup and donut being slid towards him. Jon clapped him on the back and told him to eat up, and quickly strode out of the room when he heard the cameraman call 30 seconds to air time.  
Just staring at the donut made Stephen nauseous. Reaching for the coffee instead, he immediately spit it all over the table when the heavy taste of creamer and sugar hit his tongue. After drinking bitter black coffee for the last few days, the cream and sugar made his current cup feel almost viscous as some of it made its way down his throat. Quickly cleaning up the spray of coffee from the table, he trashed both the cup and donut before anyone could walk in. Pouring himself a new, blacker coffee, he sipped tentatively at the burning hot liquid as he made his way to his office. Passing by staff and nodding at friends, he managed to covertly hide his still bandaged hand until he got to the safety of his office, shutting the door and collapsing onto his couch with a huff of relief.  
Finally daring to peel back the layers of gauze, he inhaled sharply when he saw the state of his mistakes from the night before. The nicks were angry and red, seeming to almost pulse with his too-heavy heartbeat. Wrapping the gauze back around the wounds and ignoring the way his hand was heating up, Stephen now was tasked with trying to hide his hand for the rest of the day. He almost got away with keeping his hand firmly shoved in his suit jacket pocket, but his plan unraveled during a board meeting for next week's show. He had dropped a pen, and upon bending down to get it he reached out with his hurt hand and watched as the gauze started to unfurl. His face burning, he snatched the pen up, and kept his hands solidly under the table for the rest of the time while obsessively checking to make sure that the wrap wouldn't come undone. Though he was sure no one had noticed his slip up, Stephen felt his stomach drop when Jon kept him after the meeting and asked about what he'd done to his hand. Quickly fumbling for some excuse, he just said that he had stumbled on his way back from their get together the night before and scraped his hand on the asphalt. But just as Jon reached out to take a closer look, Stephen's stomach gave a loud growl of hunger and annoyance. His face white as a sheet, Stephen snatched his hand back and promptly strode out of the room - leaving a confused Jon in his wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edit - 6/10/20]: so I added a bit more to this bc the "chapter" wasn't finished, but yeah that's it for this part ://


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lol this BS continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I had another breakdown about my weight gain during this quarantine (I'm back at my SW now) and S-Hed again, so this chapter is really short bc I just mainly needed to get anger out

Shuffling along the halls, Stephen could no longer ignore the aches in his stomach. They were all consuming now, a blinding cramp through his whole middle that refused to abate in its intensity. Feeling like he was going to collapse any second, he braced himself on the doorway of the break room as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Bent over in pain, he made his way over to one of the tables and grabbed the first thing he felt. Stars dancing in his eyes, he shakily unwrapped whatever bar he had grabbed and took a ravenous bite. It turned to cement in his mouth, and his mind cried out in protest as he fought down the gritty mixture of granola. Coughing as his esophagus tried to hurl up what he'd just swallowed, Stephen staggered across the hallway to the men's room, where he locked himself in a stall and proceeded to dry heave until he couldn't breathe at all. Every part of him ached, and he saw static and stars when he moved his eyes, but he'd kept the food down. Bit by bit, Stephen wheedled away at his bar until all that was left was a wrapper and the feeling of being alive again. Stephen wondered if it was worth it, putting off meals to achieve a superficial goal. After all, he was sure he'd been close to death then, and he never wanted to feel like that again. On his way home, he decided that no longer was he going to let these girls thoughts control him. Studying into his apartment with purpose, Stephen pulled out his favorite chips and a soda. During down on the couch, he flipped on the TV to whatever crime show was running, and got to work - confident that this would cure him.  
Coming back into consciousness however, Stephen felt awful. He felt sick and heavy and greasy, but had no real idea what had happened. Rubbing the crust out of his eyes, he focused his bleary vision on his clock: it was 2 in the morning. His TV was bouncing some screensaver that made his head hurt, and he was surrounded by chip bags, soda cans, and what looked to be a tub of almost empty ice cream. Properly awakening now, his stomach sent him aching pains again. But this time, it was from how stuffed he had made himself. He hadn't even remembered getting anything else, but his stomach and his fat deposits sure as hell did. Looking down, his stomach had ballooned out over his waistband, the belt pressing into his skin. Everything felt tight and suffocating, like he couldn't breathe anymore. Getting the now familiar burning in his face, Stephen felt the hot, shameful tears begin to well up in his eyes. This felt worse, so much worse than the hunger he had felt earlier in the day. How did he ever think this would help? All of the calories would absorb right away too. He couldn't take them back, couldn't undo his actions. He could feel himself getting heavier, could sense himself pooling outwards. He could feel the fat forming, the calories in his stomach getting moved and placed down as markers of his stupid mistake. Feeling himself start to shake as he fought the onslaught of tears, he clenched his hands in sheer anger. Hissing as his hand wounds were agitated, Stephen made a promise to himself. He would never let himself get like this again. He would take control of himself, he would better himself, and he wouldn't let food take over him like this as long as he lived. He would have control.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok yeah so this is still going on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm fully relapsing in my ED now, I ate as little as possible today but I had kind of a lot of broccoli just now for dinner so now I feel heavy and bloated again 😌✌️ so yeah I wrote more today

When he woke up again, he had a crick in his neck and that sluggish feeling still in his gut. Creakily standing up, Stephen rubbed his eyes as he blindly made his way across the living room and into the kitchen. Deciding on his usual coffee instead of anything else, Stephen set the water to boil and surveyed the disaster zone that was his couch. Forcing his eyes to properly open, he set about picking up the remnants of his gorging, and trying his best not to puke all over his floor. As his back spasmed when he bent over to pick up a can, Stephen thanked God that today wasn't a work day, because he would have died right then and there in the building. Finishing up packing away the rest of trash, he shuffled over to the kettle when it beeped. Leaning against the countertop, he let the bitter pureness of the coffee wash over his system and reset it. It felt like the greasy sin of last night was being hosed off of him, the sticky trails of what he'd done sliding down him like soapy bubbles. Stepping into the shower, Stephen was careful to keep his eyes closed the whole time. Despite his hand, he turned the water as hot as it would go and just stood there, letting the burning feeling melt him down so he would step out a new, cleaner man. When the feeling of his body's presence got to be too much, he'd scratch at himself until everything tingled and he couldn't feel it anymore. Not even wanting to imagine how red and raw he looked when he got out, he kept his back to the mirror.  
The rest of the day was a blur for Stephen. Without work to break up his life into concrete times, he seemed to float in and out of reality as the clock raced on. After getting out of the shower, he properly tended to his hand. Freshly rewrapped and no longer sinisterly pulsing, he sat himself in front of the TV and let his mind numb to the meaningless garble on the screen. One moment the clock showed it was noon, but the next it was 5. Then 7, and then midnight. Finally moving his atrophied limbs, Stephen cleaned up the cups he didn't remember getting from his coffee table and swayed drowsily down the hall to his room. Collapsing into bed, the resolve for change he had had at the beginning of the day was gone, replaced by exhaustion and defeat.  
His alarm woke him up this time, its shrill beeps rousing him from an uneasy sleep. Throwing his hand at his nightstand, he finally managed to turn it off as he reluctantly cracked open an eye. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, and his throat was coated in sandpaper. Making his way to his sink, Stephen was momentarily surprised when he saw how dead he looked. The weekend had been hazy enough for him to wonder if he had gotten drunk, but he had run out of beers the week before and he didn't remember leaving. Then memories of greasy fingers and a bursting stomach trickled back, and he dropped to the ground as he dry heaved over the toilet. Thankfully the convulsions stopped pretty quickly, but the sour taste was stuck in his mouth as he gulped down glass after glass of ice cold water. Hurrying out the door before he was late again, Stephen felt like he would pass out on his feet if he didn't get coffee soon. Finishing the buttons on his shirt on the bus ride to the office was near impossible, but it helped him stay conscious. His fingers felt too big and too shaky, and moving them felt like trying to move something through molasses. He managed though, and before he knew it he was calling for the driver to stop because he had missed his stop. Sheepishly thanking the driver as she glared at him, he hurried down the steps pushed into the building. Work that day was a challenge for Stephen. He had had flubbed some major lines during his report, but thankfully John had covered for him (again) and saved him from too much embarrassment. During his meetings he found it too hard to concentrate on what people were saying. Their voices twisted in and out of his head as muffled whispers, and trains of dialogue and thought disappeared in puffs of smoke. He resorted to doodling shapes on his papers instead, if nothing but to create a tether to the real world and stop himself from floating away. Jon's voice broke him out of his reverie though, when long fingers snapped under his nose and he was tugged back into the present. Jon repeated the question, which Stephen still didn't quite catch, but apparently whatever response his mouth gave was adequate enough for the other man to give a chuckle and nod. Sighing in relief, he went back to barely holding himself together until he realized people were standing up around him. Quickly shuffling together his papers, he hurried out of the room while pointedly ignoring Jon's squinted gaze. Typing up scripts was even worse for him, as he realized when he snapped back to realize he'd been smashing keys for the last two pages. Shaking himself awake and punching his gut when it rumbled, Stephen made his way to the break room for a well deserved coffee. Seeing crackers placed out among the other refreshments made Stephen's stomach cry out again, so he relented and took one. Nibbling away at it, he leaned on the countertop and scrolled through twitter while trying to resist the urge to grab five more and shove them in his mouth. Just as he got started on his coffee, Steve came into the room and startled at seeing Stephen there. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and resorted to looking at Stephen from the corner of his eye as he got himself a sandwich from the table. He paused at the door on his way out, but then just shook his head and continued down the hall.  
Stephen knew that they knew. He knew the looks he was getting from Jon and Steve, and even John and Sam had started to furrow their brows and give each other conspiratorial looks every time he sat down at a board meetings. Ed once had to steady him during a joint report they were doing at the RNC, and from that point he too joined the others in being covertly worried for his well-being. He wasn't stupid, he could see they were concerned. But to be honest with himself, he didn't really care. He didn't see how they could be concerned with him anyways, he wasn't any skinnier. Sure, he didn't have trouble with his belt anymore, but his thighs still pooled and his stomach still bulged. Paranoid that his fat was showing, he'd taken to checking in every single surface that was even remotely reflective that yes, he looked the same and that he'd have to do better that day. His spine ached from doing crunches every other night, and the rest of him ached from existing. He rarely met with Jon and Steve anymore, choosing to enclose himself in his office or in his home under the pretense of "wanting to get ahead of the paperwork". Jon had assigned him all of his scripts. He knew it wasn't the reason. He was almost like normal, but the flatness of his eyes, his papery skin, and the loud and hard beating of his heart were the cracks in his carefully built facade. They all danced around him like this for a while, letting him keep up appearances and responsibilities at work, but act like a recluse outside of it. And Stephen was fine with that, he really was. His sharp elbows were raw from hitting them on doorframes, and his knobby knees were bruised from clashing them together from his shivering. But he was getting there. The scale was his friend now, finally showing him numbers that made his heart skip in happiness for the first time in a long time. When he saw 140 for the first time he almost passed out, and not just from the stars that regularly framed his vision now. He was on the verge of euphoria, sitting against the wall next to his scale breathing heavily as he tried to call himself down enough to stand up. He spent that morning in a haze of happiness, and even treated himself to an extra cracker during his lunch break.  
Stephen knew that they'd ask eventually. One day he would walk into his office and see his friends circled around his desk like he was some damn alcoholic. He knew what he was doing was wrong, hell, he knew the risks now from googling his BMI every other hour. But he felt good for the first time in a long time, like the ill-fitting suit that was his skin was finally starting to fit. So he kept going.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee another shorter chapter bc I can't write consistently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm on my period for the first time since like last year (a whole other can of worms that I'm upset abt) and bloated as fuck, I hate life and wanted to kind of reign in Stephen's story and weave in some elements from my own story. Sorry for the shorter one this time, I didn't feel like tying in a whole new paragraph afterwards lmaooo

Food was posing more and more of a challenge to Stephen. Every time he came face to face with it, his heart started to pound even harder. He felt reckless, out of control. More than once, he had hoarded snacks into his office and ate until he cried, or until he had to push them under his desk because someone was knocking. His brain could no longer stand seeing food without knowing it: how many grams of sugar, sodium, but most importantly, calories. Calories had consumed Stephen's life in almost every sense of the word. He'd even taken to carrying a booklet around for a little while to track everything he put into his mouth, but ended up hiding it deep in his desk when Sam almost opened it after it fell out of his pocket. From then on he used the notes in his phone, writing calories for every berry, chip, or gummy that he ate. Tabulating his walk from his home to the office, and his exercises at home. Every time he penned in another number, he finally could subdue his heart and his mind.  
Having control became quickly addictive, and Stephen couldn't get enough. There were many breakdowns for going over his limit, and many binges and failed nights. The scabs on his legs and hips multiplied as his skin eroded back to show angled bones. He thought he looked beautiful. He couldn't stop looking at himself. He had decided he would stop at 120, but honestly he didn't know if he could. He didn't want to, if he was being honest with himself. Finally, his skin almost fit him.  
Not that people weren't starting to genuinely worry though. When the comments from the show turned from compliments about his weight loss to concern over his papery skin and flatlined eyes, he stopped looking at them. They didn't know what he wanted anyways, and wasn't this all their faults? They were the ones that had pushed him. But it didn't matter now, because fuck them if they didn't like Stephen's change because he sure did.  
His friends weren't exempt from the concern over him either. Sam started leaving him homemade cookies on his desk, which he (regretfully) threw away. John had multiple times offered takeout after one of their shoots, which Stephen deflected again and again. He wouldn't go to bars with Steve, because he was worried how quickly the alcohol would affect him after months and months of eating close to nothing. During the occasional office party, Ed would offer him every single appetizer on the table throughout the course of the night, and Stephen would politely decline each and every one. He felt so strong now, drunk on the power of having so much control over himself. Sipping a diet coke or another cup of coffee while he watched his co-workers devour cloying pastries and donuts felt exhilarating, and though he knew he was closer to death than he'd ever been before he had never felt so alive. To him, nothing could compare to fasting for a day and a half and drinking freezing cold water, feeling it settle into his stomach like a shard of ice. While people got drunk off of cheap liquors, he got drunk off of standing up too fast. It was Jon though, who gave him the greatest aches about it all. He'd started covertly following Stephen about a week ago, trailing him like a cop following a suspect. Every time he looked up and around, there he'd be; quickly whipping his head to avoid Stephen's gaze. But secrecy had made Stephen's mind sharp, if not a little bit paranoid. He started obsessively carrying his phone everywhere, and made absolutely sure that no one could hear him when he upchucked something into the toilet. When Jon started writing, his mind almost broke itself with how fast it started running. What was he writing? Was it about Stephen? (It most likely was). Was it about his habits? Had he truly found out? (It was a bit obvious now). Was he going to report him? Stephen wracked his mind about what to do about the whole thing. He would have to know what was written, of course, but how would he get the chance to? He realized, quite surprised, that he didn't even know Jon's schedule anymore. Had something changed? When would he be free?  
Stephen had taken to wandering. Not only because of the calorie burn but because it gave him a ghostly feeling, like he could step out of himself and roam the halls as a being not bound to anything. He could observe, and let his mind go absolutely blank. Normally, he would have his phone with him. But today, caught up in the static running in his brain, he realized the weight in his pocket had been a pad of sticky notes and instantly started hyperventilating. Breathing heavy and laser focused, he borderline sprinted back to his office just as Jon was leaving it. Staring horrified at Jon's receding figure, he threw open his door and looked in terror at his phone lying innocently on his desk. He knew it hadn't been in that spot before, so he knew that Jon had done something. He had never bothered to change his password... Oh god, Jon had found the notes. He'd found the equations, he'd found everything, hadn't he? But he couldn't find evidence of any screenshots, not even in his trash. He hadn't sent Jon anything recently - in over 3 months, he noticed with a pang in his heart - so maybe Jon didn't find them after all? He could've tried to, but didn't think to look in his notes. Still feeling uneasy, Stephen had no choice but to accept that maybe everything was fine after all. He was skittish the rest of the day though, yelping and flinching when anyone brushed up near him. When Steve had tapped him on the shoulder to look over his script for that week's big election report, Stephen spasmed so hard that he knocked over his coffee. As he was frantically pulling tissues to mop up the spill, he didn't miss Steve's quirked brow at his dramatic reaction. He was almost amused, until he caught the frenzied and distraught look in Stephen's eyes. Stooping down to help him mop up the mess, Steve didn't say a word.

Stephen had thought he was in the clear for about a week and a half after the Jon incident, but the pit in his stomach wouldn't dissolve. Finally, the pit grew and filled his whole stomach when he was called down to Jon's office, the lady over the intercom speaking the words of what was sure to be his death sentence. Steeling himself and preparing excuses, he opened the office door and stepped inside. He was sweating bullets, and his hands felt like they were in an earthquake. But managing to keep himself composed, he sat down in the chair facing Jon when the other man beckoned him to sit. This was it. But what Jon did completely blindsided Stephen, because instead of pulling out his phone to show any screenshots, Jon instead placed a small booklet on the desk between them. Stephen's booklet. Cursing himself internally, he knew he should've burned that book out of existence as soon as Sam became suspicious. But seeing as it was a written document, Stephen saw a way out. He thought about saying that he found it at first, but quickly realized that there was no way that the writing wasn't his and that choosing this lie would get him executed. Instead he crafted a story for Jon, telling him how he saw that an intern was skipping meals and writing, so he had found her notebook and copied the information to show to Jon. He didn't want to name her, just hoped she got help. Now, there was in fact an intern who had the same pale sheen that he did, but not only did Stephen not know her name, he had never spoken to her. In that moment though, he was a cornered animal. If asked, he would have thrown her under the bus in seconds; that was horrifying to him. Jon looked dubious, said some things about eating disorders that Stephen had to play dumb to, but ultimately sent him on his way with a reminder to talk to him if he ever needed something. Scoffing to himself as he walked as calmly as he could out the door, Stephen didn't stop shaking until he swung the door to his office shut and collapsed in a heap on his couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I did end up adding that extra paragraph bc one of my classes was super boring lmaoo


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This update took a while because ive been busy and couldn't bring myself to write, but it's here now lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this part of the story is heavily based on what I did before my last physical to bring my weight up, but it's a little bit different than what I actually had to do based on how im writing Stephen in this

For the next few weeks Stephen played it low. He avoided people even more than before, but always made sure he had a piece of food near him whenever anyone passed him by. He was getting thinner and thinner now, the snowball of his obsession now barreling down the hill towards chaos. Then a couple weeks later that ginormous ball hit a roadblock, aka Jon fucking Stewart. Stephen walked in to a doctor's note pinned to his desk, and a sticky note on it saying that Jon had had no other choice than to do this and that he'd had enough of watching Stephen suffer. Stephen missed his first meeting that day, too busy crying and breaking down in the bathroom to remember that time and deadlines existed. He'd be found out now for sure, this wasn't the same as Jon confronting him. The doctor would know the signs, would see the bones and the scars, and would lock him up in some psych ward with pasty 16 year olds. He'd have to cover up, he'd have to weigh himself down somehow. He'd have to do something, something to get through this appointment because his body would surely break if he was confronted with the ugly truth of what he was doing to himself.  
The next week was spent in a tunnel, more so than he had been in previously. He went through his entire wardrobe over the nights and weekends preceding the day of reckoning, mixing and matching to find the heaviest clothes that would cover his frame the best. He tested different drinks, gulping down glasses until he couldn't even move to see which ones would bloat him the most. He took out rolls of dollar coins from the bank and practiced taking them in and out of different places. He still came to meetings, though everyone seemed to give his haggard figure a wide breadth and didn't dare touch him. Some nights he didn't have the energy to get up off of his bathroom floor, weak and sticky from long dried tears and hollow joints. Those nights, he'd lay and set his phone on quiet music, letting meaningless melodies sooth him into restless sleep, if only to finally let his body spread out after keeping himself held so tightly together throughout the day.  
When the morning broke on the day of the appointment, Stephen carefully began his plan of deception. Jon had agreed to drive him, as it was relatively early in their work day, so Stephen would have to execute each step with extreme precision. Finishing his first bottle of water, he placed one of his coin rolls in the inner linings of his sweatpants as he leisurely made his way to the office. Holding the other two coin rolls in the cuffs of his sweatshirt, he started on his second bottle as he rounded the third to last corner to the building. Knowing he was late, Stephen began sprinting at the second corner, disregarding his already aching bladder. Huffing and puffing as he waved to Jon, he tossed his second bottle in the trashcan near the car as he clambered into the passenger seat and apologized for arriving so late. During the car ride, Stephen made it through 2 more bottles and got started on his thermos of coffee, as he nudged his laces loose with his shoes. Bending down to tie them, he surreptitiously moved the other two coin rolls into the insides of his socks, which he had double layered and rolled down earlier that morning. By this point, his abdomen hurt so much that it was difficult to bend back up, but Stephen breathed through it, knowing it would all be worth it if he made it through this wretched visit. As Jon pulled into the parking lot of the doctor's office, Stephen was halfway through his last bottle of water, and as he swallowed the last mouthfuls he could only hope it would be enough to weigh him down enough.  
Now, when Jon had told him that he would be going to see the doctor, he had said it was a physical. So thankfully, the doctor wouldn't be primed to look for anything suspicious. But Stephen didn't trust that Jon hadn't mentioned anything to the doctor, so his heart was pounding when the receptionist called his name. A nurse came out and led him to a small room down the hall, and asked him to take off his shoes to weigh and measure him. His height was first, which hadn't changed from his average 5'11" stature. But his weight, his weight could be his revival or his death sentence. With bated breath, Stephen said a quick prayer to the Lord above as he stepped up onto the scale. Scrunching his eyes before forcing them up to the electronic number, he felt a massive wave crash over him as he saw 155.7 flash back at him. Sure, it was a few pounds down from what he had been at originally, but that could be written off as a healthy loss. Feeling light headed with relief, Stephen allowed himself to be led into another room as he tried to get his heart to stop beating so fast and so hard. The nurse who took his heart rate and temperature scared him when he commented on how abnormally high Stephen's blood pressure was, and Stephen quickly had to ad lib a response about his fear of the doctor's. It wasn't a lie, technically...  
And finally, the doctor stepped in. His angel or his reaper. Steeling himself and putting on his best, most unbroken mask, Stephen took a breath and went through the tests. He told her about his recent bout of workouts when she inquired about his weight loss, and assured her that the reason for his pallor and eye baggage was an influx of work and the rise of the political season. Laughing when he should've and nodding solemnly when needed to, the time on the clock hanging from the lilac walls ticked away until the doctor thanked him for his time and told him he was healthy and free to go. Standing up and trying to be as unhurried as possible, Stephen was once again made aware of his agonized bladder as he stepped back into the hallway. Quickly locating a bathroom, relieved himself and cried tears of joy as the gravity of what he had just accomplished had sunk in. Throwing his fist in the air, he jumped around the restroom in pure exuberance until he caught a hold of himself and composed himself as he stepped out of the bathroom and calmly made his way down out of the building and into the parking lot where Jon was waiting. He told Jon the doctor said he was perfectly fine, and after asking to see the report when it came in Jon finally seemed to be put at ease. Stephen still saw something in his gaze as Jon glanced back to the road, but the flash of that unknown emotion was quickly lost in the reflections of the sun as they lit up his face.  
Leaning back in his seat, Stephen could finally breathe.


	7. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeee I'm back sorry this took so long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I still can't really write a lot but here's a short chapter I wrote at 6:10 in the morning bc I literally only got an hour of sleep across the last two days heehoo  
> On another note: I'm over my SW!! I hate myself!! But I'm confident I can get down again and ive already dropped a pound, so yeah as long as I stick to it I can (as I said abt Stephen) carve myself out of the marble again, so to speak

Stephen had fucked up. He'd fucked up bad. He didn't know how he had let things get so out of hand, but here he was now: sobbing in front of his mirror at home as he felt his mind breaking. It had all started so innocuously, him just picking at bits of food to convince Jon and the others that he was in fact eating. Slowly, whether he wanted them to or not, the walls started to crumble. Rules faded into the back of his mind as he started to relax, and before you know it he had lost all his passion. All the fire, the fury, the burning self hatred, it was gone now, replaced by a dull feeling. He hated himself now, maybe more than he did when he was skinny, but he just couldn't get 𝘮𝘢𝘥 anymore. Eventually people stopped giving him concerned looks. The cookies at his desk and the appetizer offers faded away, and his clothes started to look less like they had been hung on a skeleton. Body checks became less and less frequent, and though he still in no way ate how he was supposed to, Stephen got better. Of course, with this new oppressive dullness shrouding him, Stephen didn't notice his accidental recovery until he decided to weigh himself (he hadn't done that in a while, now that he thought about it.). Balking at the number staring back at him from his scale made him gag. Seeing stars that he realised he hadn't seen in a bit, he stumbled back until he hit a wall and sank down into the floor. Sobs quickly built in his chest and before he knew it, spasms wracked his body as he heaved and wept in his bedroom at 4:30 in the morning as birds chirped their saccharine melodies to spite him. Peeling himself away from his carpet, he knew he had to face himself in the mirror sooner or later. As he looked at his misshapen face, he pawed at his stretched skin, gone from being wasted and pulled taut over his features to accommodating more fat on it than had been there in many months. Everything about him felt wrong, he kept feeling his body where it didn't used to be. It felt like having your furniture moved a couple inches, where you kept bumping into things that you never had before. Another sob forced its way out of him, as he cursed himself again for the horror he had brought upon himself. He hadn't even noticed his hair had been growing back in, and even combing through it made him weep again because it meant he had gained weight. He had failed. His skin, the suit that had been so close to finally fitting properly had ripped now, once again too tight for his aching heart.  
Dealing with the fact that he was over his starting weight was hard. He knew he'd have to be sneaky now, because his friends would know his signs all too well now. He taped up his broken mask and slipped it on again, and while his heart broke every time he lied to them he had never felt more at home in himself. Finally, he had a goal again. He felt like he was someone again. Someone with a purpose, someone who was taking control of his life again. It was hard though. Harder than the first time to get himself going down that hill. But the small thrill he got when he flushed a plate of food down the toilet or jotted down another exercise in his new calorie tracker app was worth it enough to get him to keep going. He could feel his old self under his skin, he could feel the hipbones and cheekbones and ribs fighting to break free from the layers of fat that now encased them. Stephen was like a sculpture: he would have to chisel himself out of the clay again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also oooooo italics!!! Lol sorry that's the first time any special text effects has shown up on this shit show of a piece


	8. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wHEEEE guess who's back again w a longer chapter this time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I wrote this after I had watched that dramatization of the whole Ted Bundy thing on Netflix and for some reason it kind of sent me into that weird heavy/spinny kinda-wanna-cut-now mood so the hair pulling is actually what I did lol and it went as well as I wrote it lol  
> Anyways here's a longer chapter

Stephen was tugging on his hair again. Pulling at the hairs on the nape of his neck was something he had taken to doing lately, since at work he couldn't cut anything. He had stayed late at the office, working on a script and putting off eating when he became aware of the panicked feeling rising in his chest. Suddenly he felt like he was floating, careening off into space without a tether. Scratching at his healing cuts wasn't helping, and the light-headed sensation from his sped up breathing was causing the pit of nausea and weightlessness in his stomach to balloon out and overtake him. Still hearing interns rushing around right outside of the meeting room, Stephen didn't want to risk being caught with his pants down and an exact-o knife on his hips. But nothing was helping and his breathing was getting faster and he kept curling in on himself like he was trying to protect himself in an earthquake. Eyes squeezed shut, his hands automatically went to the back of his neck and grasped the wisps of his hair. He kept pulling and agitating until he felt himself landing, more or less, into the present. He whipped his head up, blinking through his dizzied vision as he made sure that no bustling newbie had noticed his slip. Sighing, he shook himself out and went back to work; the pit in his stomach stayed tamped down.  
Truth be told, Stephen thought that losing the weight again would be easier, since, he reasoned, he already knew his weaknesses and pitfalls. The process should've been more streamlined this time around: he should've been back down to where he used to be. Sure, on the outside he looked healthy for once and if you didn't look too closely, you would think that this little "phase" of his had blown over. His friends had stopped giving him worried looks, and they had stopped coddling him and treating him like a fine china. He was no longer a figure of porcelain, something to be handled delicately and with great care. Now he was a person again. They didn't even care about his other habits anymore, didn't care that he refused to eat with Jon and Steve anymore and didn't eat the full meals that were catered. Because now he looked fine, and they had seen him snack now. Stephen felt awful though. In fact, he thought that however he was feeling now was worse than when he was at his lowest. This was so, so much more humiliating. No longer could he control himself, and no longer would his stomach sit quietly when he got hungry. He was snacking constantly now, even if it was mostly fruit and his old friend coffee. But it would also be chocolates, cereal, bread. It would be small slices of cheese, and even mashed potatoes if they had been brought in. Stephen fucking hated this version of himself. The kind that couldn't control himself anymore, the kind that gave into impulse and didn't put in the work. Some days his body felt bearable enough to look at in the mirror, and some days he couldn't bare to look at himself without a sob breaking out. His hip bloomed red a lot more now, some patches of skin scarred over so many times that he couldn't even feel the blade slicing through. Everything in his life felt like it was slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he tried to lunge and grab the reins they would always slither out of his grasp. He didn't know how he got out of bed each morning. He didn't know how he sat through meetings and read-throughs without screaming. (He felt like screaming a lot.) He didn't know he could function, how he could go out on air and act like he was alright when he felt like the stitches holding him together were being torn out and all of his stuffing was falling out. He felt like a fraud. He couldn't lose any weight, or he kept gaining it back, he was over his starting weight, his heart hurt and his head swam and he couldn't feel his bones and his stomach stuck out and his thighs were so close to touching and he felt like he was spiraling out into space with no rope for him to pull himself back and his chest felt heavy and his throat felt stuck and his eyes felt wrong and he was so tired but he couldn't sleep and nobody noticed 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 because he looked 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. Nobody noticed him drowning because he looked fine. Stephen wanted to cry again. He wanted to cut. He kept pulling at his hair and curling his body into itself and hoping he could swallow himself. It didn't work. He kept spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also wheeeee more italics lol my hands r shaky again so it's hard to write this thank god for autocorrect


	9. Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so there's probably gonna be a real lack of chapters rn bc nothing much is really happening rn lmaoo that's why this is short af

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so yeah nothing drastic has really happened and I'm in kinda a pit rn soooo  
> But yeah I haven't weighed myself in a bit and nothing has really developed w my ed rn, and the things that have can't really fit in the storyline ya know?? There's one thing that I might include in the next chapter whenever that happens but yeah expect a bit of a hiatus until sth interesting happens :') hope you guys don't hate my writing too much

It felt kind of good, floating through his day and into the next, feeling life rush by him like currents in a raging river while he lay at the bottom. He hadn't been paying attention at work, he was surprised Jon hadn't fired him. Stephen couldn't remember the last time he'd been on air, and maybe fans were upset, but how should he know? Or care, for that matter? Nothing held much importance to him anymore. He was exercising more than ever it seemed based on his constantly tight and sore muscles but couldn't remember getting up and going to the gym. He probably had to interact with at least one person throughout the day, but truth be told Stephen didn't know if he remembered how to talk sometimes. He felt flat, like there was no substance filling his empty shell. All he could remember is the cold of his floor as he lay in the dark and played music, letting the flow and ebb of soft instruments wash over him some nights, and the relentless beat of a drum and heavy guitar shock him into awareness on others. His hips had long stopped responding to the pain of his small blade slicing, but he kept swiping night after night, whether out of compulsion or a vain attempt to feel again. He would stay silent for weeks on end, but would up reading a sticky note on his desk congratulating him on the scripts he'd written during a night he didn't remember. Nothing held meaning for him anymore. He couldn't figure where the real Stephen had gone, and how he'd let himself get replaced with such a hollow shell of who he used to be. When his mom sent him a birthday message, his body screamed in misery and Stephen wanted to cry, wanted to cry so badly but he just 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵. He couldn't. His mind had been taken hostage by an emotionless mannequin and it refused to let it's mask fall, not even when his mind cried out in agony and desperation.  
He hadn't stepped into a scale in what might have been less than a week, or maybe a month. Stephen couldn't tell anymore. Time didn't move right anymore, he couldn't make sense if he had been through one day or three. He couldn't even bring himself to get out of bed most days, it was so much simpler to stay cocooned in blankets and completely shut off. But either because of muscle memory or something Stephen couldn't explain, he lifted himself up every morning and went to work. What he did, he couldn't tell you, but he knew he stepped in and out of his home every day. Sometimes he would momentarily snap into the present and find his hand in a bag of chips or crackers, and though his mind once again screamed out to 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 it was like he was trapped in a box and no matter how much he screamed his muffled voice couldn't make it through. He didn't bother counting much anymore, he couldn't remember what he ate anyways. It was like driving at night, pitch black until the streetlights shone a patch of clarity for a couple seconds before plunging you back into darkness. Stephen was sinking, no longer spinning but sinking, deeper and deeper and he was crying out but he had to hold his breath and the deeper down he went the calmer everything seemed to be so why should he try to swim back up?


	10. Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is a rare update enjoy my pretentious half-coherent thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes I'm back for a super short chapter bc I was physically itchy to write this down  
> Uhh I'm like not doing okay but I'm also vibing so like it's all good  
> Also like... If y'all wanna interact in some way w this bullshit then I'm totally down!! It'd be nice to know I'm not just screaming into a void lmaooooo  
> Anyways yeah see y'all whenever for the next update whenever that is

Nothing had changed for him. The small, minute fluctuations of weight had brought him temporary pride, only to be brought crashing down in a tide of carbs and apathy. He wore long socks now despite the heat, and his hip and wrist were ruined. He just couldn't find it in himself to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. He felt in between, like he was somehow disconnected from the physical sensation of existing. Interactions and friendships were kept up though, and if anyone noticed the perpetual bandaid on his left wrist and the aura of muted heartbreak that wafted off of him it didn't reach his ears. It was a little disgusting how easily he could remold himself, how easily he could reshape his face and voice to sound like he used to, to sound like a person who was all the way there. He couldn't recognize himself in the mirror sometimes. He felt a little sick. His heart was hurting more than ever. He ached.


End file.
